


We Were Never Anything But Monsters

by Samayo_Kaze



Series: Bloody Shackles [2]
Category: Danny Phantom
Genre: Attempted drunk introspection, Based on a song, But there sure are a lot of them, I make him HURT, I will make their names tags if it kills me, I'm drowning in this rare pair, I'm not sure what these Vibes are, Iambic Prose, Or rare trio, Poor Andy, he's fine, it's fine, that's right folks
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-28
Updated: 2021-01-28
Packaged: 2021-03-13 20:13:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,482
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29034465
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Samayo_Kaze/pseuds/Samayo_Kaze
Summary: Hey . . . . SO this is what happens when the Vibes hit and you're violently exhausted.  Song is not mine!!The Sect has shaped everything He ever was and everything He still is. He just wishes that he could resent that.Andrew Ritter has never been anything but the Priest of Death, death just taught him some subtly.
Relationships: Danny Fenton/Ghost Writer, Danny Fenton/Ghost Writer/Original Character(s), Ghost Writer/Original Male Character(s)
Series: Bloody Shackles [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1145597
Kudos: 2





	We Were Never Anything But Monsters

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Ibelieveinahappilyeverafter](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ibelieveinahappilyeverafter/gifts).
  * Inspired by [FtB](https://archiveofourown.org/works/3547493) by [Ibelieveinahappilyeverafter](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ibelieveinahappilyeverafter/pseuds/Ibelieveinahappilyeverafter). 



Strictly speaking, as a ghost capable of altering reality Ghostwriter cannot necessarily get drunk. Beyond the obvious issue of being dead, and thus requiring far more alcohol is a much shorter time frame, his impressive tolerance had been something of an inside joke even before his death. Besides, there’s little point in being drunk when you can change your world with the tap of a keyboard. So Ghostwriter also has little reason to be drunk. Andrew Ritter, on the other hand, desperately wishes he could reach that once-familiar oblivion.

Perched on the rooftop of the tallest building he could find in Amity Park—in his human disguise, as if that would make drinking himself into a stupor easier—the ex-assassin lifts the most recent bottle to his lips and drinks straight from it. Danny (his dear, caring mate) would be head over tail concerned about his black mood, had the young halfa had the time to visit over the busy weekend. Luckily for Andy, there had been some sort of mandatory family bonding time happening in the Fenton household and instead of having to reassure his wonder mate Andy has chosen to wallow in his black feelings. It’s not something he does often, being the reasonable one in general. Lord knows it shouldn’t have to be Danny. The poor boy was only 16.

_“ **When you were 16 you were already a top assassin**_ ,” the traitorous thought emerges from his sea of emotions. And that’s the problem, isn’t it? The Priest of Death is never as far away as he likes to pretend. It’s one of the reasons he has refused to join Randy on his jobs. If he starts, Andy isn’t sure he will be able to stop. Instinct is a powerful thing in a ghost, and Andrew Ritter’s instincts were forged with bloody blades in hand. He likes to claim that he’s put his past behind him, but in reality all it’s ever done is haunt him. Ha, look at him. A ghost who being haunted instead of doing the haunting.

Disposing of his now empty bottle with a wave of the hand he carelessly grabs another, shifting to perch precariously on the edge of the roof.

_Why do all the monsters come out at night?_

_Why do we sleep where we want to hide?_

_Why do I run back to you,_

_Like I don’t mind when you ruin my life?_

Because as much as he would like to. As badly as he wishes he could hate who he was raised to be. He _can’t_. He _doesn’t_ regret it. Not with what it’s led to. Who it’s led to. Not when its let him have Danny and Randy and be able to keep them both **_safe_**. He would do it all over again every time, to be able to end up here. Metaphorically at least.

_Another day, another headache_

_In this Hangover Hotel_

_Gettin’ used to the rhythm_

_Yeah, I know this beat to well_

_Tunnel vision’s,_

_Got me feeling_

_Like you’re the only one I see_

_But I know what’s missing_

_When I’m swimming_

_In my lonely luxury_

Danny wouldn’t truly be upset, to know that Andy feels this way. Like his past sometimes overshadows him. Andy knows that, intellectually. That Danny can be far more mature than he seems most of the time, who decided at 14 that he would protect his town with no ‘or die trying’ because to die would mean that he failed and Danny refuses to fail when it comes to protecting what is his. His and Randy’s past is known, for Danny, and while he never forgets it he also doesn’t allow that acceptance to alter how he interacts with the two spirits. But Andy also know that Randy **_does_**. Randy has built his entire existence as a ghost around who they used to be. It’s startling sometimes, just how little Randy seems to be _aware_ of it too. Mercenary is just a step under assassin. Just a hair to the side. And yet Randy doesn’t realize at all. At least Andy is self-aware.

_I’m wondering why,_

_Do all the monsters come out at night?_

_Why do we sleep where we want to hide?_

_Why do I run back to you,_

_Like I don’t mind when you ruin my life?_

_Why am I a sucker for all your lies?_

_Strung out like laundry on every line?_

_Why do I run back to you,_

_Like I don’t mind when you ruin my life?_

It’s easier at night, to feel his own darkness creeping up. Stirring in what used to be their usual element. Maybe if he drinks enough he can stop thinking about what a terrible joke the universe made when it gave the murderous sci-fi writer the ability to bend reality to his whims. Or why he only barely considered using that power to re-write their past. Randy probably doesn’t even realize that Andy could. Frankly Andy could do whatever the hell he feels like. He has far fewer limitation than everyone believes. Weaker without his typewriter, yeah right. It’s just a convenient excuse to stay out from under their thumbs. And yet for everything, he just can’t bring himself to truly hate the Sect. It took everything from Randy; molded and twisted them all into monsters, and yet he sits here and does **_nothing_**.

_I’m addicted to the way you hurt,_

_The way you contradict me_

_I swear everything looks worse at night_

_I think I’m overthinking_

_I don’t care who I hurt_

_Along the way_

_I’m fucking sinking_

_Into every word_

_I don’t care if you’re lying_

_When I’m drinking_

_So tell me pretty lies,_

_Look me in my face_

_Tell me that you love me_

_Even when it’s fake_

_And you can lead me on_

_And leave these questions in my sheets_

_I’m under it_

_I’ve made my bed_

_And I’m still wondering_

_“I know you’re there,”_ He rasps tiredly in French, voice slurring just the slightest amount. Another bottle gets discarded as Randy lets his invisibility fade away. Andy doesn’t bother to look back at the no doubt guilt-inducing face Randy always pulls whenever the older man catches Andy in a slump. It’s been the same since they were teenagers.

_“You’re drunk,”_ Comes the mild observation as Randy seats himself to Andy’s left. He snorts, offering his ‘brother’ a drink from his newest bottle. The face Randy makes when he tastes it is more than worth putting up with the interruption. _“My god that’s terrible.”_

_“That’s the point.”_ Andy glances over at the man he had wanted to be his first. Well, he had been the first to steal his heart at any rate, and Danny has since been given what bits Randy had managed to give back. Not that he loves the little halfa any less, of course. But, differently.

_I’m wondering why,_

_Do all the monsters come out at night?_

_Why do we sleep where we want to hide?_

_Why do I run back to you,_

_Like I don’t mind when you ruin my life?_

_Why am I a sucker for all your lies?_

_Strung out like laundry on every line?_

_Why do I run back to you,_

_Like I don’t mind when you ruin my life?_

“ _Just, don’t. Not tonight.”_ Andy cuts off anything Randy might want to say regarding his sudden re-spiral into alcoholism and self-introspection. _“Let me have tonight. If you still feel the pressing need for heartfelt conversation in the morning, we will talk then.”_ For a long second he thinks that Randy is going to disregard his request. Then, the gun-slinger reaches over for an unopen bottle instead.

_Thinking about you,_

_You’re in my head_

_Even without you,_

_I still feel dead_

_Why do I run back to you,_

_Like I don’t mind when you ruin my life?_

_Dead,_

_I’m thinking about you_

_You’re in my head_

_Even without you,_

_I still feel dead_

_Why do I run back to you,_

_Like I don’t mind when you ruin my life?_

The two drink in silence for several hours, minds millions of miles away. _“Do you regret it,”_ Randy finally asks, somewhere firmly past properly sober, “ _Becoming a ghost.”_ That, is not where Andy was expecting this to go and just when he has finally managed to almost drink himself under a non-existent table.

 _“No,”_ he admits softly, _“We were already monsters. It’s a certain kind of relief to finally wear the skin of one too.”_

_I’m wondering why,_

_Do all the monsters come out at night?_

_Why do we sleep where we want to hide?_

_Why do I run back to you,_

_Like I don’t mind when you ruin my life?_

_Why am I a sucker for all your lies?_

_Strung out like laundry on every line?_

_Why do I run back to you,_

_Like I don’t mind when you ruin my life?_


End file.
